Page 72 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

His voice falters.

I stay silent for a long time, feeling his heart beating against mine. The jealousy still gnaws at me, but I understand. I understand that loving Ruslan also means accepting the shadows of his past, the debts he still has to pay.

"It’s okay," I finally whisper against his shoulder. The words hurt to say, but they’re honest.

He tenses against me, as if he hadn’t expected that answer. Then his hand tightens around mine, hard—almost desperately.

"Thank you," he breathes.

And in that single word, I hear everything he doesn’t say: his gratitude, his relief, and perhaps also the love he struggles so much to express in any way other than passion.

I close my eyes, nestled against him, and I accept it.

I accept the man he is, with his flaws and his demons.

Because in this world of violence and lies, he chose me.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

38. The threat

SOPHIA

Since his shoulder injury had healed, Ruslan finally received permission to come train with us in the basement, where a gym had been set up with treadmills, weight machines, and... wrestling mats. Our guardians had even found us kimonos, and it was with barely contained excitement that I watched Ruslan approach, eager to face him. He had told me about his boxing classes in college, and knowing his perfectionism, he must have been at a good level: Ruslan never does anything halfway.

He faces me with a smug smile, too confident of his victory. He probably remembers the arm lock I had put on him last time, but in his eyes shines that masculine assurance, that conviction that his brute strength will be enough to dominate me. We greet each other with a nod before we begin circling one another, like two predators looking for a weakness. The silence is broken only by our breathing and the friction of our bare feet on the mat. He waits for me to launch the first attack, testing my patience. Very well. I won't disappoint him.

My right fist shoots out with the speed of a snake. A feint to the face. He raises his arms to protect himself, exposing his side—exactly what I was hoping for. My circular kick strikes his floating rib with surgical precision. The dull sound of impact resonates in the room, followed by a muffled grunt. He grimaces, straightens up, his eyes suddenly darker. By his look, I can see he's taking me seriously now. The fun and games are over.

"Okay, you want to play that game? We'll play your way," he growls in a falsely threatening tone, but I detect the new tension in his voice, that mixture of surprise and wounded pride.

He goes on the attack. His combinations are fast, precise, merciless. Each movement calculated to destabilize me. He feints left, strikes right, tackles me without warning. I dodge just in time, I block a blow that should have hit my jaw, I counter-attack by targeting his weak points... but his leg sweep comes like lightning from my blind spot. My legs give way beneath me, and I fall. No time to think: by pure instinct, I grab his jacket and take him down with me, refusing to fall alone.

We roll over each other, body against body, in a struggle as intimate as it is violent. Our breaths mingle, our eyes lock, playful but fiercely focused. I feel every muscle in his body tensed against mine, seeking advantage. In a synchronized movement, almost as if we had rehearsed this dance a thousand times, we rise in the same fluid motion. The attacks continue, ever faster, ever more vicious. The feints become more subtle, more dangerous. My heart is racing, my limbs are burning, but adrenaline masks the pain. Neither of us gains the upper hand. Damn, he's good!

After an hour, we're out of breath, soaked with sweat, our muscles trembling from exhaustion.

"Sierra," suddenly calls the voice of the youngest agent responsible for our protection, brutally breaking our bubble.

Surprised, I turn my head toward him, my attention divided for a fatal split second... just as Ruslan's fist, launched in a movement he can no longer hold back, hits my right eye with a force that makes me see stars. Pain explodes, sharp and burning.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, sorry honey!" Ruslan apologizes, his face instantly changing from the concentration of a fighter to pure horror. He approaches, hands trembling, no longer daring to touch me.

"It's my fault, I'm the one who got distracted," I reply, bringing my hand to my throbbing eye. "Well, Agent J, what's so important that you had to interrupt a training session?"

He lowers his head, sheepish, aware that he caused the incident.

"We have the time for the appointment. They're expecting you tomorrow at 2 PM at the command center."

These words fall like a guillotine, brutally reminding us why we're here, why we're training. This isn't a game.

After the shower, Ruslan examines my slightly bruised eye with a look tortured by guilt, then hands me a cloth in which he has carefully placed frozen peas. His fingers brush my skin with excessive gentleness, as if he were afraid of breaking me.

"It's cute that you're worried about me," I tease him, to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere between us.

"Yeah, go ahead and make fun of me," he growls, feigning anger, but I can see he's replaying the scene over and over, imagining how he could have hurt me much worse.